


If You Let Me Help

by Twisted_Mind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Caretaking, Cock Rings, Edging, Explicit Consent, First Kiss, Gentle Dom Peter Hale, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Light Bondage, M/M, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Negotiations, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay, POV Peter Hale, Porn with Feelings, Sex Pollen, Teasing, mentions of:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-24 21:41:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16648331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: “Stiles, I need you to tell me what you want from me.”Stiles blinks slowly. “What?”Ideally, Peter should’ve asked before the boy was this lost to the flower’s effects, but he can’t do anything about that now, and there’s no guarantee that Stiles would’ve told him anyway.





	If You Let Me Help

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Kinktober 2017 Collection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12234195) by [Twisted_Mind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind). 



> So! I've done Kinktober two years in a row now, and some of you may remember that last year, I did drabbles. Teeny lil 100 word snippets of kinky goodness. And, as I did that, I realized that I'd never written the sex pollen trope, and I wanted to--so I used the day 1 drabble for "aphrodisiacs" as my starting point, and (eventually) wrote this. 
> 
> It's gooey soft, warning you now. Thank you to everyone who helped me with it over the last year, and put up with me driving myself nuts trying to piece together a working rationale for _sex pollen_ in a 'verse where there are werewolves and people who don't stay dead, because _I_ needed it to make sense. 
> 
> This is late because I'm a disaster human lately, but I hope this brightens up your weekend!

 

Peter watches the boy’s pupils dilate, skin flushing. The others don’t notice, too relieved at having escaped death to realize what their mad dash led them through. They’ll be fine, most of them won’t even feel it—their accelerated healing will clear the flower’s toxin before their immune system response causes the classic symptom to appear.

Stiles, on the other hand . . . 

“You know what that was?” he murmurs. Stiles swallows, nodding. “Then you know you shouldn’t try to ride it out on your own.”

Stiles’s scent blooms with shame. “I’ll be fine.”

“You will be if you let me help.”

Stiles shakes his head, muttering, “Outside. I’m not talking about this here.”

Peter obliges, because the lack of refusal is interesting. The fact that the boy’s scent is ripening, turning sweet and sharp like lemonade, doesn’t hurt either. Once they’re in the parking lot, he leans against the decrepit junk heap Stiles calls a vehicle and waits.

Stiles takes a deep breath, jaw tightening before he asks, “What’s gonna happen to me?”

It’s not the reaction Peter expected. “You don’t know?”

Stiles huffs, frustrated, but doesn’t raise his voice. Smart. They’re far enough from the others that it would take effort to hear them, but a determined eavesdropper could manage. “Look, it was included in the plant guide I’ve been studying for Emissary training, but the book goes for breadth rather than depth. I know what it is, I know it’s the reason I’m horny, but not much else. If you’re just gonna stand there and be a cryptic asshole, I’m gonna get in my Jeep and go the hell home, and you can make excuses to everyone about where I’ve gone.”

Peter quirks an eyebrow. “Feeling a little on-edge, are we?” He doesn’t wait for a reply before he goes on. “It’s fairly simple. You came in contact with the pollen—inhaled it, or absorbed it through your skin—which kicks off an immune response. The stuff is more of an irritant than anything else. Your current state,” he gestures vaguely in the boy’s direction, “is a result of your body trying to flush the pollen. Some of it you’ll sweat out, but most will find an exit in your,” Peter pauses, looking pointedly at the tent in the boy’s pants.

Stiles fills in the gap. “Sexual fluids, got it.” His cheeks are bright red, but he pushes forward. “So, uh. Why, exactly, should I have a partner? This seems like the kind of thing a good jerk-off session and a shower will fix.”

Peter grins, and he knows it’s hungry. “Several reasons.” He straightens from his slouch, and stalks forward. “First, because soon you’ll be so desperate for relief, you won’t notice when you start dehydrating.”

Stiles’s throat bobs as he swallows. “Or I _could_ stock up on water bottles and Gatorade and be totally fine.” 

He moves closer, ignoring the flimsy rebuttal. “Second, because I know how best to guide you through the next few hours. How to make it as pleasant as possible, how to speed up your recovery.”

Stiles doesn’t put more space between them, even though Peter’s close enough now to feel the boy’s breath against his face. “That—okay, fine, I’ll give you that one.”

“And lastly,” he murmurs into Stiles’s ear. “Because you can’t infect me as the pollen works its way out of your system.”

Stiles jerks away at that, and Peter knows it’s not because his closeness was unwelcome. “Wait, _what_? I can pass this on?”

Peter nods. “As I said, it’s an irritant. Your body’s looking to flush it out, not break it down—so anyone who comes in contact with infected bodily fluids risks getting it in _their_ system.”

Stiles drags a hand over his head. “Okay, well. Fuck. In that case, I probably should have a werewolf around, if for no other reason than I do _not_ want to accidentally infect my dad with this. Christ.”

Peter cups the back of the boy’s neck. “Sweetheart, we can check into a hotel, if you like. Or you could come with me to my apartment. I have,” he hesitates to accurately describe the supplies in his apartment, “a better set up, for something like this.”

Stiles stares at him for a long moment, and Peter revels in the way lust-dark eyes take him in. “As creepy as you sound, you’re probably also right.” He sighs. “Okay. Can you just—swing by my house, first? I’m going to need a change of clothes, since I sprinted through the Preserve in this, and I don’t want to track it back to my house or catch it again.”

Peter nods. “We can. You drive there, and I’ll follow you, pack you a bag.” His mind is whirling at what Stiles will need from him, how to contain this. He follows Stiles’s Jeep on autopilot as he plans.

Once inside the boy’s room, he dials Deaton. “Beacon Hills Veterinary Clinic, Dr. Deaton speaking.”

He tosses a pair of pajama pants into the canvas bag he’s packing for the boy. “Deaton. It’s Peter. I need you to whip up a neutralizing agent. There was trouble in the Preserve, and in the midst of running for their lives, my nephew and his puppies dragged Stiles through a patch of flowers with . . . particular effects.”

He hears the indrawn breath, and knows he doesn’t have to explain any further. “That is serious. I take it the others haven’t reacted?”

Peter hums an affirmative as he rifles through Stiles’s closet for the softest overshirt the boy has. His skin will be sensitive, after. “Of course not. Though that doesn’t mean they can’t or won’t spread it. I’m not even sure they know what it was they sprinted through.”

Deaton sighs, and Peter allows himself a smirk. He does love causing the former Emissary headaches. “Alright. I’ll give Derek a call, tell him to keep everyone present until I can deliver the neutralizing agent to them. They’ll need to treat their clothing, if we’re to avoid an outbreak.” There’s a pause, and Peter knows what’s coming, but doesn’t give Deaton the satisfaction of answering before he’s asked. “Are you equipped to help young Mr. Stilinski through the coming hours?”

Peter tosses the boy’s toiletries into the bag and rolls his eyes. “Of course I am. I have a waterproof pad I can use to protect my mattress, and I’ll get the neutralizing agent from Derek once he’s through the worst of it. I’m picking up clean clothing and toiletries for him now.”

“Well. That’s good, I suppose.”

His gums itch as his fangs try to break free. “Don’t sound too grateful there, my good Druid. I wouldn’t want to get the wrong idea.”

Deaton, of course, doesn’t respond to that. “The agent will take a few hours to complete. I’ll tell Derek to let you know when it’s ready.”

He hangs up, then, and people have the gall to say _Peter’s_ rude. But, regardless, the neutralizing agent is being prepared, Stiles’s bag is packed, and Peter has a boy to tend to, so he tucks his phone into his pocket, zips the bag shut, and slips back out the window.

 

***

 

By the time Peter’s locking the apartment door behind them, Stiles is flushed and clumsy with arousal. Peter doesn’t know how lucid he is, but the boy doesn’t protest being stripped. Peter dumps the clothes into a plastic garbage bag. He’ll deal with them later, but he doesn’t need Stiles tracking pollen through his apartment.

“Peter?”

Stiles sounds so distressed, so unlike himself, that Peter can’t be reassured by the fact that he’s verbal. “I’m right here, sweetheart.”

Stiles’s eyes are dark, his skin a splotchy pink. Every line of his body is tighter than a piano wire. “Peter, hurts,” he whimpers.

He kisses the boy’s forehead, and steers him toward the bathroom. “I know it does. I’ll help you make it better, I just need to get set up for you. Can you get clean for me while I do?”

Stiles nods. Peter figures that’s probably as good as he’s gonna get. He’d tell the boy not to come while he does, but he doesn’t think Stiles has the self-restraint to hold off right now. Not when he’s fighting the effects of the pollen, with how young he still is.

Sure enough, Stiles’s skin is flushed red, his cock (temporarily) flaccid under the towel he has wrapped around his waist as he pads into the bedroom. Peter kisses his cheek, and settles him on the bed—stripped of everything but the fitted sheet, with a waterproof pad underneath to protect his mattress. And then he pulls away. “Stiles, I need you to tell me what you want from me.”

Stiles blinks slowly. “What?”

Ideally, Peter should’ve asked before the boy was this lost to the flower’s effects, but he can’t do anything about that now, and there’s no guarantee that Stiles would’ve told him anyway. “Do you want me to keep you company, or touch you?”

“Touch me!” The response is immediate, and Stiles squirms, one hand reaching for him.

Peter pets his thigh. It’s a little too sensual to be innocent, but Stiles isn’t complaining. “Do you want me to touch your cock, sweetheart? Or just your skin?”

Stiles hums, arching into the drag of his palm like a cat. “ _Yesssss_. Wanna be touched.”

It’s not particularly clear, but Peter knows he doesn’t have much time before Stiles is in the grip of the toxin again, so focussed on coming that he won’t care how he gets there. “Do you want me to fuck you, sweet boy?”

At that, Stiles squeezes his pretty eyes shut, whining in distress, tossing his head. Peter’s going to take that as a “no”. Which. Disappointing, but not surprising.

So he moves on to the next question. “What about fingers? Toys?”

Stiles’s mouth drops open, and he wraps a hand around his rapidly-filling dick with a whine, which is about as close to a “yes” as Peter thinks he’s going to get for now. He peels the boy’s hand away, kissing the knuckles when Stiles pouts. “I know, sweetheart, but you said you’d let me take care of you. Are you going to be good for me and keep your hands off your pretty cock, or do I need to handcuff you?”

Stiles moans, his body rolling as his hips stutter, and Peter grins. “You like the sound of that, sweet thing? Want me to cuff your hands, be the one to touch you, tease you, make you come?”

“Please!”

It’s a little garbled, but it’s clear, and it’s all the permission he needs. He snaps the cuffs on the boy—and really, this is the Sheriff’s son, of _course_ he has inappropriate fantasies about handcuffs—and watches the ensuing squirming. The sight has his jeans feeling tight. But even if he won’t have the exquisite pleasure of fucking the pretty boy until he cries, the fact that he’ll get to play until the sweet thing begs is more than enough for tonight.

He’d prefer Stiles be incoherent from a thorough fucking than from intoxication anyway.

To that end, he wraps his hand loosely around the boy’s erection, sliding up and down slowly until glazed eyes have focussed on him. “Here’s what’s going happen,” he murmurs, thumbing the head just to watch the boy’s lashes flutter. “I’m going to take my time, bring you off just like this. You’ll get a little rest then, before I work you over for real.”

Stiles’s brow furrows. “What?”

Peter nods, pleased that he’s lucid enough to understand what he’s hearing. “The pollen needs to work its way out. And you’re human—you only have so many orgasms in you, sweet thing. Coming dry will hurt.”

Stiles licks his lips, nodding. Worry cuts through the thick scent of his arousal. Peter continues. “So, in the meantime, I’m going to put a cock ring on you and work you over ‘til you’re desperate.”

“No,” Stiles mewls.

“Yes.” Peter emphasizes it with a firm squeeze. “I’m going to make your pretty cock leak, make a mess of you before I let you come again.” At the pout that gets, Peter coos. “Oh, none of that, now. I promise you’ll enjoy it. After all, that’s the point.”

Stiles pouts harder, and really, he can’t have that. So he twists his wrist on the upstroke, and has the satisfaction of seeing the boy’s forehead smooth out. He keeps at it, and soon the plush mouth is hanging open as Stiles pants, hips rocking up into Peter’s fist, trying to chase down the orgasm that’s making his skin dew with sweat.

Peter doesn’t help him, doesn’t speed the motion of his hand or lean down and lick even though he wants to. He wants his first taste of Stiles to be untainted by the sickly-sweet pollen oozing out of every pore. So, some other time, perhaps. If Stiles lets him.

By the time the boy comes, he’s flushed pink down to his chest and trembling all over with exertion, his breaths harsh and raspy. He lets out a drawn-out groan as he spills, and he’s beautiful, messy and glowing against Peter’s sheets. It hits him like a kick to the chest, how much he wants to see this again, how badly he wants Stiles just like this, flushed and shining and needy, in his bed.

The difference, of course, is that Peter wants it because Stiles wants to be here. With the toxin in the boy’s system, there’s no way for him to be sure, and Peter’s never been interested in bedding the lukewarm. He wants partners who want him. It’s not a crime.

So he coos soft nonsense as he mops up the worst of the mess with a towel, because the last thing Stiles needs is to reabsorb what he flushed out once already. Then he settles in to wait, one hand stroking lazily at the soft skin of the boy’s thigh. He knows it won’t take long before the unrelenting arousal makes him hard again, but there’s no sense rushing. Human refractory periods exist for a reason.

Sure enough, twenty minutes later, the scent of arousal makes the air sharp as the boy’s body tries to go again. But his cock is slower to respond the third time around, so Peter touches and strokes the flushed-pink skin, pinching at sweet brown nipples until Stiles is standing to attention.

It would be a lie to say he doesn’t enjoy the way the pretty wreck whines and squirms as he rolls the cock ring on. He’s not a fan of the bitter notes of distress, but that can’t be helped. He’ll make this as easy on Stiles as he can, but it still won’t be entirely pleasant.

“Now, then. Let’s find your sensitive spots, shall we sweetheart?”

 

***

 

“Well, you were right, when you said you knew how to handle this,” Stiles mutters tiredly. The poor thing’s in a bath with neutralizing agent in the water, to ensure there are no lingering traces in his system.

Peter also added Epsom salt when he ran the bath, because it turns out the pretty boy thrashes when he’s desperate. And because, after four orgasms in as many hours, he’s going to feel it tomorrow. He hums in acknowledgement, and—assured that the Sheriff’s son isn’t likely to accidentally drown before Peter can get to him—slips away to start purifying his home. And that infernal Jeep.

The things he does for this boy.

 

***

 

Just over a month later, Peter answers a not-wholly-unexpected knock at his door, and sees Stiles. He raises his eyebrows in mock surprise, as if he can’t smell the wired anticipation and biting lust rolling off every inch of that lithe frame. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Um.” Stiles bites his lip, which really, he shouldn’t. If anyone’s going to bite it, it should be Peter. “Would you, uh. I was really out of it, before, but I—I think I’d like a repeat?” He nervously licks his lips. “I feel like being in your bed is something I should remember, and thanks to that janky pollen I don’t, really, so. Seems like something we should fix?”

And oh, but his uncertainty is endearing. Peter nods, and steps back to allow him in. “Oh, absolutely. I’d hate to think I didn’t leave an impression.”

Stiles brushes past him, his ducked head doing little to hide his blush. “I didn’t say _that_ ,” he mutters.

Peter catches him, and guides him round to look him in the eye. “Even so.”

When they kiss, when he finally gets his first real taste of the clever pretty boy he’s wanted longer than he’s been sane, it’s sweet in a way that’s pure, unadulterated Stiles.

Peter wouldn’t have him any other way.

 

**Author's Note:**

> For more of my Steter bullshit, I can be found [here](https://queerfictionwriter.tumblr.com/), and apparently I have fallen down the rabbit hole of Tumblr fic, as evidenced by [this](https://queerfictionwriter.tumblr.com/post/180174589141/queerfictionwriter-twothumbsandnostakeincanon), so that's just one more reason to pop by and witness the dumpster diving.


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